She spins in circles
reaching for the moon,
Colors swirl; unique, these portals
to a universe unbound.
She is lace and air
with a cell phone glued to one ear,
an MP-3 hard wired
to the other.
She can’t be painted, no matter
the cut of the corner. A graceful whorl
comes close but it cannot bridge the gap
between esprit and synapse.
from any conventional syntax
she spins, trying to touch the moon,
never doubting that she can.